


louder than sirens, louder than bells

by sleepinnude



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean and Benny have a house and a cat, Domestic Bliss, M/M, Thunderstorms, this is largely just porn but also with a side of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26453008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepinnude/pseuds/sleepinnude
Summary: A thunder storm rolls in to break a heatwave. Dean and Benny take the atmosphere and run with it.
Relationships: Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	louder than sirens, louder than bells

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from florence + the machine's "drumming song"  
> endless thanks to [cherry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryIce) for cheerleading & beta!

Dean bursts into the house with an exhale, thick heat clinging heavy to the back of his neck and against his sides. They’ve been in the middle of a heatwave the past few days, though the weatherman who Dean hates (“He looks like Fred Jones!” he exclaimed and Benny had just raised an eyebrow) is predicting it’ll all break under a thunderstorm that night. Judging by the tension in the air and the curl on the leaves, Dean has to begrudgingly admit that the asshole from channel four might be right.

Whatever happens with the weather, Dean is thankful for their steady little air conditioner and the fact that his boyfriend’s body temperature comes in at a cool eighty-nine degrees. He had been on the phone with Sam on the back porch and what was supposed to be just a quick check-in turned into a trailing conversation about which plants would be safe from deer and whether or not six months old was too early to let baby Joanna start on solids (“She was gumming on a waffle, dude,” Sam protests and Dean could hear the roll of his eyes. “It’s not like we’re giving her a hunk of brisket.”). Needless to say, the kick of the air conditioner feels like heaven (or better, considering Dean knows what a tire-fire that place really is) and he closes his eyes to revel in the cool.

When he wanders into the living room, Benny is sprawled over the couch, open book balanced against his chest with one hand while the other is flung lazily over his head. Benny doesn’t look up as he asks, “Sam all right?” so Dean lays himself fully over him in order to get the proper attention. 

“He’s fine,” Dean says into Benny’s collarbones. “What’re you reading?”

“ _Milkman_ ,” Benny answers absently, still absorbed in the story. “Novel, set in Northern Ireland ‘round the Troubles.”

Dean is about to ask if it’s something he’d like when a roll of thunder rips through the sky, sounding like it’s directly over their house. He drawls out an impressed, “Ooh,” and rubs his face into the well of Benny’s chest, bared by the open vee of his henley. The patch of skin, rough with hair, is cool against his cheek, like sheets that have just been billowed over the mattress, like the window open on a mid-Spring morning.

“Looks like Chris Coleman is gonna end up being right,” Benny rumbles, naming Dean’s meteorological nemesis. He staves off Dean’s pout by folding his book over to the side table and digging his fingers into Dean’s hair.

Dean gives another “ooh” at that, but closer to the back of his throat. After a moment of lilting into the contact, he shoulders up and rocks forward to catch Benny in a kiss. Benny hums into it, drops his hand to Dean’s waist, the free one cradling around Dean’s head.

Lightning fills the room and there’s barely a count before another head of thunder breaks over them. It makes the hair along Dean’s neck and arms stand up. Like grain into a tin bowl, the rain falls in after, building to a steady drum.

Dean doesn’t realize until a few heartbeats later that he and Benny had both broken from the kiss, held still, eyes tilted to the ceiling as they listened. They grin at each other and Dean dips his head again. They kiss long and heavy and settled as the thunderstorm puts up its feet and gets comfortable over their house. It’s not long before Benny’s hands are palmed to Dean’s ass, keeping their hips grinding together while Dean does his best to work one hand down the back of Benny’s collar to span over his broad shoulders. Dean draws his teeth, tugging Benny’s bottom lip and Benny’s fingers go firmer against Dean’s ass.

“Fuck,” Dean forces out. He shifts his hips, trying to get more traction and ends up with one knee slipping over the edge of the cushions. The whole of his upper-body collapses down onto Benny and he narrowly misses biting through Benny’s bottom lip.

“Getting too old to do this on the couch,” Benny murmurs into his mouth, between one kiss and the next. He gropes to the side and hefts Dean back into place. As always, the ease with which Benny handles his whole weight jolts Dean’s temperature up a few degrees.

Between pants, Dean shoots back, “Well, you’re like a thousand years older than me.” Benny retaliates with a hand clapped full over Dean’s ass, making him yelp a little. Shooting a glare to the man under him, Dean untangles himself, props onto his elbows and then heaves off of Benny.

“C’mon, old man.” Dean teasingly offers a hand up to Benny, making a production of bowing into the move. Benny eyes him like he wants to refuse the offer but instead just takes the momentum and bodies himself against Dean.

The air has shifted in the house - with the storm breaking the heat, the air conditioner has clicked off so all is still and shot through with atmosphere. Rain falls, lightning bursts, thunder marches steadily. As natural as the storm, Dean and Benny fall together.

They trail slow toward the bedroom, enjoying the press of sloppy kisses and backs against walls. When they pass the bathroom, Dean ducks a head in to check that Impala (the cat, not the car) is curled up in the sink -- her comfort spot whenever the air fills with a storm. Benny teases him about his affection for the cat with only a grin and then pulls him in, gets his hand up over his cheek and tilts his head down to meet for another kiss. 

Their bedroom is dark, no lights on, so the lightning flares through it brilliantly. In the split second, shadows cast and dance and Benny’s eyes are so light they’re nearly colorless. Thunder shakes the eaves.

They both strip out of shirts but Dean only gets through the fly of his jeans before he’s darting back into Benny’s space, kissing heatedly along the line of his throat. Benny takes the proximity as opportunity and tucks his hand into Dean’s boxers, earning himself a punched out moan. Dean’s mouth goes less coordinated, more just panting against Benny now, as Benny’s hand rolls along his cock. Dean swears, neck arched down as he buries his face fully into the pocket of Benny’s shoulder.

“Easy now, sweetheart,” Benny says and it’s half a soothe and half a tease. 

“I fucking hate you,” Dean counters and once more brings his teeth into the party, dragging them along sensitive skin just below the line of Benny’s beard.

Benny laughs at that, delighted by Dean’s impertinence, and the rain is pouring from the gutter that empties near their bedroom window.

A moment later, through fumbles and swearing, they get rid of Dean’s jeans and then Dean is suddenly aware of the fact that, not only is Benny wearing sweatpants, he is apparently going without underwear. Making a show of it, Dean drops to his knees, but instead of fitting his mouth against the obscene tent there, he folds his hands before his face and, aloud, goofily thanks the Lord for the invention of Those Grey Sweatpants and for giving him such a well-endowed boyfriend. Benny laughs again and that was more than half the point of it.

And then Benny’s laughter chokes off as Dean grips the hard line of his cock and wraps his mouth around the head, through the fabric. Which, again, was more than half the point of it.

“Dean, fuck,” Benny says and lands a hand over Dean’s head which, _yeah_. He straightens on his knees a little so his head bucks against Benny’s palm and then puts his attention back to the task at hand or, as it were, mouth.

It’s more the impression of a blowjob than the actual act of it, more just the damp heat of Dean’s mouth pressing in and around. Thunder sounds and Benny must have ideas of what he wants to happen because within the space of a second, he has Dean up off the ground and on his back, on the bed. Dean takes a minute to catch up and by the time he does Benny has his own pants off, too, and is fitting his hands to the inside of Dean’s knees, spreading them.

Dean opens his mouth to say something, Benny’s name or the lord’s in vain, or maybe just _fuck_ but then the broad stroke of Benny’s tongue is flat against the cleft of his ass and all Dean lets loose is a garbled whine. 

“Didn’t quite catch that, sweetheart,” Benny mumbles but it’s directly against the thin skin of Dean’s hole so all Dean can do is whine and moan some more.

He loses some time, between lightning strikes and thunder and the rain and the never-ending press of Benny’s mouth and then, in short order, Benny’s fingers as well. There’s a crazy heat to it all, a tension strung through the thick air and it feels like Dean can’t exhale. Just keeps pulling oxygen in and in and it’s making him a little lightheaded, a little drugged on Benny’s touch. If Benny were closer to human there would be the half-moon marks of fingernails in his scalp from Dean’s grip. 

The thing about Benny having been alive for so long is that he has an incredible patience to him. Instant gratification means nothing; he’s happy to dig his knees in and spend hours or more winding Dean up only to draw back just before he finds his release. The thing about Benny being a vampire is that he doesn’t have to breathe.

It’s a full-tilt spiral of this: of Dean climbing and Dean climbing and Dean climbing, Benny vaulting him up, hand over fist, and then -- pulling back. Letting Dean whine and dig his heels in, edging him along to the fine line of climax and never letting him drop over it. In those lulling moments, Dean becomes aware of the storm, of the way it’s petered out a little, to a constant buzz of rain against their windows, sluicing through the gutters. The way Benny turns his head to drop the barest of kisses to the soft inside of Dean’s thigh. And then, before Dean has ever really gathered his breath and heartbeat, back to full-clip again and climbing and back arching and fingers in Benny’s hair.

When he finally comes, when Benny finally lets him come, it’s been hours. Or, likely, not hours, but Dean has been rocketed so many times, has lost himself to some space deep inside his own arousal and against the back of Benny’s tongue, that he’s not sure of the difference between a second and minute anymore. All it takes is Benny’s fingers working a little deeper inside him and then his mouth slipping up to take the head of Dean’s cock between his lips. That’s it, all of his muscles twist and tense and then release with a gasping surge of Benny’s name.

There’s a soft few moments, directly after while Dean still drifts in the aftershocks. The rain falls. Benny plays his fingers along the crease of Dean’s hip. He cushions his chin on the curve of Dean’s stomach and watches his face, waits for the heave of his chest to slow, the awareness to come back to his eyes. Once some cue signals that only Benny is aware of, he’s climbing up the bed, weight supported on hands and knees over Dean. They meet eyes for just one second and Dean is glad that Benny only lets the look last for a moment before dipping in to kiss him -- otherwise Dean’s face would have melted into some raw openness full of all that he feels toward the vampire and Benny would have seen it, how completely spent on Benny he was. (It’s not like Benny doesn’t already know this, but it’s a lot for Dean to confront, Benny knowing, that soon after that explosive of an orgasm.)

Dean goes a little wild for Benny at his kiss, scrabbling at shoulders and pulling him closer. It helps that Benny takes it as permission to be just as eager, just as certain with him. He gets one big hand up under Dean’s chin and angles their mouths together so that the slip and pant of it is more than a little indecent. Benny’s so focused on kissing Dean that he doesn’t get through more than rutting into the notch of his hip. A few more brain cells online might convince Dean that he’s disappointed, that he wants Benny inside him again, the hard stretch of his dick filling him up (he’s always left feeling empty at Benny’s retreat, always has to work to cover the feeling in his chest that arcs toward keening for Benny to keep inside him some way), but then Benny latches his mouth around the cord of muscle through Dean’s neck and those fewing working brain cells fizzle offline.

It’s a wild sort of finish and Dean considers thunderclaps and lightning bolts. There’s a mess between them and Benny has his nose pressed furiously into Dean’s neck, where Dean can feel the tender pulse of a bruise. His eyes are closed and he’s shuddering and Dean has to turn his face into Benny’s hair before the bubble of gratitude raising in his chest bursts, before he starts spilling out honesty along Benny’s skin: _thank you, for choosing me, for staying, for being all that I need and want, for matching me at every curve_. Instead, he closes his eyes and inhales. Benny smells like sex and cedar and the lavender of their laundry detergent which is to say that at some level Benny smells like him and he smells like Benny and both of them together smell like home.

When Benny finally lifts his head he has a look of heart-aching affection on his face. Dean spreads his palm over his cheek and kisses him solidly. Lets it linger so they can both draw some steadiness from it. He keeps Benny close after, keeps his forehead against his own and exhales for what feels like the first time in hours.

“Hey,” Benny says after a moment. He’s turned his head a bit so that the point of his nose is skimming up the side of Dean’s. “Rain stopped.”

It has -- there’s the rustle of breeze through the maples and thunder in the distance, signalling the storm has moved on for now. Dean waits, counts inhales. It’s a few long draws before another roll of thunder marks. Begrudgingly, he acknowledges that it does feel cooler from the storm -- Chris fucking Coleman on channel four was right.

With a whiny noise, Dean shifts them on the bed: Benny on his side, facing in and Dean notched into the bend of his chest, face tucked away in the well of his collarbone. Benny has a hand on Dean’s thigh that’s gentle and proprietary. After a moment, Benny makes a telltale noise of affection that Dean knows means Impala has curled up on her usual spot, the curve of Benny’s hip.

Dean falls asleep between Benny quietly telling him about the book he was reading earlier and the easy crescendo of another bout of rain.

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable post here!](https://joharvele.tumblr.com/post/629191215101935616/louder-than-sirens-louder-than-bells-summary-a)


End file.
